Succumbing to Weakness
by Ygrain33
Summary: Moments of Ned Cousland's relationship with Morrigan, concentrating on its development. Morrigan's PoV. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Options

**Options**

Sitting cross-legged before the hut, Morrigan awaits her mother's return, and the changes it will bring to her life.

Finally, the great wings flop against the darkening sky. Morrigan startles as she realizes that Flemeth is about to land directly on the patch of land before the hut, not on the small hillock nearby as usually. She understands only as she recognizes the burdens the dragon carries in its talons and maw.

The two bodies thump on the ground as the dragon unclenches the talons before landing; then it lowers its head and lets go the body of a mabari warhound. A moment when the world shrinks and expands again in a whirl of magic; where the dragon was spreading its wings, now Flemeth stands, stretching her arms. With a look of disgust, she spits profoundly several times and wipes her mouth.

Morrigan comes closer and takes a look at the bloodied forms. "Do they even live?"

"Of course," Flemeth snaps. "Why would I carry dead meat, I pray? – This may change soon, though, if you indulge in senseless prating. This one," she pokes with her foot at the dark-haired young man, "is running out of time."

_Ned. His name is Ned_. Morrigan kneels down, looking at the torso pierced with arrows.

Together, they carry the young Warden into the hut and place him on the table. "What of the other one?" Morrigan asks, thinking of the blood covering the face and soaking the blond hair.

"Some minor scratches and a cut in the scalp, it looks worse than it is. I knocked him unconscious with a spell, I certainly couldn't use either of them waking in mid-air." She snorts. "I definitely did not save the last two Wardens of Ferelden just to have them squirm out of my claws."

"The last?"

"What, have you grown hard of hearing? It went as I had said. If they are not the last Wardens yet, they will be in a couple of minutes. The field was already taken when I was heading off; what resistance was left won't survive long. Now shut up and be of use."

They continue taking off the young man's armour in silence. The bluish tinge of his face, the sizzling of the blood in the pierced lung, leave precious little time. As soon as they bare his chest, Flemeth places there her hands, glowing red. "When I tell you, start plucking out the arrows. Ready?" Not waiting for Morrigan's response, the red glow increases its intensity.

When the last arrow is removed and the wounds closed, Morrigan softly lets her breath out. She has seen mother perform mighty magic on occasions, yet she never knew that she possessed healing abilities of such an extent. As always, the display fills her with envy. _The power…_

"Good." Flemeth observes the result of her effort. "Let's move him to bed and bring in the other." She chuckles. "You can choose which one you want in _your_ bed."

"That hardly matters now," Morrigan replies with concealed irritation.

Flemeth issues an unidentifiable sound and together they transport Ned to Morrigan's bed.

Tending to the other Warden and the dog is a matter of no time; they suffered no serious injuries, except for the deep bite marks of the dragon teeth as Flemeth carried the mabari in her jaws.

"Why did you take the dog?"

"It's his," Flemeth motions with her hand to the back room where they lodged the dark-haired Warden, "or at least it stood over him as he fell and it managed to take down two darkspawn before I intervened. Good mabaris are an asset."

Morrigan wrinkles her nose. "Your asset smells…"

"Like all dogs do. And so do unwashed males. See to that and finish the treatment, I'll take some rest now. I do not doubt that you will find the activity entertaining."

Despite Flemeth's mockery, the task _is_ rewarding, in a way. Morrigan duly strips both Wardens of every single bit and dumps the bloodied and sweated clothes into the small pool where they do the laundry – where _she_ does the laundry, since Flemeth is not particularly inclined to 'chores'. She frowns at the gambesons: she is unsure if these are ever supposed to be washed. She'd rather die than put on something so disgustingly soaked with almost every fluid the body can produce but the Wardens might be of different mind, and so she puts the padded leather tunics aside.

She takes a bowl of water and clean cloth to wash away the worst of the gore both men are covered with. She starts with the blond one – _was it Alistair that the others addressed him?_ – to get the job done before the effect of Flemeth's spell wears off. She'd much prefer to let him do the job himself when he wakes but she still has to treat the minor wounds Flemeth didn't bother to tend to with her magic; besides, if she is to gain the Wardens' trust, she should not waste any opportunity to make them feel obliged.

And it's, of course, a matter of making use of the situation.

Morrigan's lips twist in a smirk. This Alistair has a body of an ancient Tevinter statue, a matching face – and brains of an earthworm. That ridiculous Maker whom these people profess either has an ironic sense of humour, or is jealous of his supposed creatures, to perform such jokes.

However, it is not his brains that Morrigan is going to use. She smiles in satisfaction as she runs her fingers over the well-defined muscles of Alistair's chest and stomach. _'Will do_, she decides, _he's sufficiently endowed… in all respects_. His abilities in conversation are of little significance; _other_ abilities are not required, either… though she would consider them a boon if he is to be the one of choice. That is yet to be decided, though; judging by the way he was looking at her – my, he even blushed! – he's not particularly skilled and Morrigan is not thrilled by the prospect of dealing with both the lack of wits and of experience. With a sigh, she shrugs. _'Will do – should there be no other option._

Which, luckily, is not the case.

She fills the bowl with fresh water and moves over to inspect that other option – the one she considers more promising so far. She is more careful when treating him; after all, Ned almost died but for Flemeth's intervention, and he is still far from healed. Morrigan tuts, displeased: she will run out of salves on him even before they set out.

Before they set out… her heartbeat quickens at the thought of the faraway places she is going to see… and at the thrill of the power she is going to gain. Far from Flemeth… on her own. The power she can gain… and one of these two will be her key to it.

She carefully rubs the salve into the closed wound just above the groin and she quirks again: when Ned comes to, he'll be most glad that the arrow didn't go a few inches lower – in fact, she's quite glad, too; options reduced to one are no options at all. Amused, she shakes her head: or would Flemeth be able to cure even _that_?

As she continues the treatment, Morrigan scrutinizes the Warden's leaner but firm frame, shortly pondering over the two different exemplars of masculinity. _A bear and a wolf_, she decides. Her own nature certainly draws her rather to wolves, lean and swift… she smiles, remembering the running, the hunting under the moon… the passion of mating.

Her smile broadens. Was the fact that she has placed this one in her bed a sign of things to come, or simply a result of a choice subconsciously made? Well, this Ned did watch her with interest, though he probably thought she never noticed. And he didn't seem so badly inclined towards her as his companions.

_Something to build on_. After all, it will probably take quite long before her time comes and she would certainly like to find some entertainment meanwhile, and Ned looks like a plausible candidate.

Or maybe she could have them both before she makes her choice, to tie them closer to her.

It's always good if there is more than one option.


	2. Over the Herbs

**Over the Herbs**

The world of men is not in the least what she expected.

Travelling through it is not what she expected.

Of course, she has been out of the wilds before, and several times – every time, though, on her own, following nothing else but her own wish and whim. Travelling in the company of others, the constant presence of the others – Morrigan never realized how straining this might be. The journey to Lothering in the company of that half-witted chatterbox of a Warden – or rather, a poor excuse of a Warden – was bad enough; with the joining of the crazy pious bard – one more who cannot keep her mouth shut! – it became almost past bearing. Were she one of those dumb Maker-confessors, she would profoundly thank Him that at least the Qunari seems to know the meaning of the word "silence".

On the other hand, the way Sten watches everyone and everything from under his heavy lids, without showing any thoughts or emotions, may be even more disturbing than Leliana's chatter.

_Leliana_. Morrigan's lips twist in a quirk. She is not deceived by the innocent blue eyes and religious talk: she can tell a killer when she sees one.

Truly, for all its puzzles and nonsenses, the world of men is sometimes easy to see through.

Ned Cousland, though, is a different story.

The man is full of contradictions and contrasts.

The favourable impression of their first meeeting quickly turned out to be false: in some ways, Ned is as foolish as everyone else. There have been countless occasions on which he ignored her advice and made the most illogical decisions. Actions bringing no profit. Helping foolish people who are doomed anyway. Refusing beneficial offers in favour of disadvantageous. There seems no end to whiners in need of help, and Ned Cousland never turns a deaf ear on them.

And then, whenever she is about to arrive at the conclusion that he is as soft as Alistair himself, he makes the perfectly logical choice and carries out his decision with pragmatic efficiency. She is unsure if it is his noble background that plays a role in this inconsistency: while she is certainly not impressed by the status gained by birth and not abilities, her experience with noblemen is too limited to allow for a correct assessment whether such… _carelessness_, counterweighed by decisiveness when the need arises, is a common trait or not.

Morrigan sighs. She should probably be grateful that unlike _others_, their leader can act reasonably at least at times.

Sitting by her own fire, apart from the others, Morrigan looks in the direction of the other fire, of the sounds of conversation muffled by the blowing wind. It's absolutely past her why Ned – or anyone, for that matter – should enjoy Alistair's company, especially not after what happened at Redcliffe, but he still does. As she ponders this, though, she realizes that this may be due to the fact that Ned seems to have his easy way with _everyone_: jolly with Alistair, pensive with Leliana, quiet with Sten… and with herself.

This is yet another thing which puzzles her: though she does appreciate such versatility, as it seems to be most effective for a leader, she is not quite sure how to cope with it… or with him.

Of course, there were a lot of questions at the beginning of their travels; but while Alistair was easily deterred soon, Ned remained persistent. Not really pestering, though: always poising a question or two, and quickly dropping the issue for days whenever she became irritated, but always coming back to it eventually… and to her.

Ever since the beginning, he took up the habit of coming to her fire almost every evening; simply to wish her good night if she made clear that his presence was unwelcome, or to sit by for a while, watching her as she took use of the time to prepare extra poultices, asking simple, matter-of-fact questions about the procedure and use.

And slipping in questions about herself.

She was cautious at the beginning, since she could not – still cannot – figure out the reason behind the questions he asks: of her childhood and upbringing, and of her mother. There is nothing he can possibly _gain_ from such knowledge (and she has certainly racked her brain sufficiently for the ways he could use it against her); in the end, she had to conclude that this is simply one of those illogical things Ned Cousland tends to do.

Not that she underestimates him because of that; there have been quite a few who have made the mistake and feed the wolves now.

She sighs again and shifts uneasily. Whenever men indulged in conversation with her before, claiming to "get to know her bettter", their intention was clear from the beginning. And though Ned does linger on her with his eyes quite often, he doesn't make a slightest attempt at seduction. Having lost patience once, she even asked why he kept staring at her when staring was all he seemed capable of – and all she received in answer was a smile, together with "A nice sight certainly improves a nasty day."

A most disturbing man, he is.

Though, she must admit that his company is not unpleasant.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she hears the familiar steps and soon, Ned Cousland makes himself seated by her fire. For a while, they sit in silence, not uncomfortable.

"What are you preparing?" he asks, looking at the brewing kettle.

"Herbal tea," she retors, annoyed at him asking the obvious. "'Wish to try it?" she adds as an afterthought.

Ned smiles. "Thank you," he takes the offered mug.

She watches him as he takes a sip, then another. "It's quite delicious," he admits.

"Of course," she snorts. "I see no purpose drinking aught unpalatable if it can be helped."

"Of course not." He downcasts his eyes to the pale golden liquid in the mug. "Is there any other purpose to it than the taste?"

"Certainly," she replies with a sweet smile as he takes another sip. "Should you be menstruating, it will ease any inconveniences."

As she expected, Ned almost chokes on the sip but she is quite impressed that he neither spits it out nor starts swearing. Instead, he looks amused, and with a little hesitation he drinks again. "Any adverse effects I should know of?"

Morrigan scowls. "Would I be drinking anything harmful, what think you?" Then she sneers. "Though, I cannot guarantee what effect it might have on _males_."

Ned's eyes sparkle with good humour. "I'm sure it's perfectly safe." He downs the rest of the tea in one gulp. "And if I turn into a toad overnight, I'll know whose doing it was."

She laughs a little at the nonsense. "Unless you turn into Alistair, there's nothing to fear from me."

"That's good to hear." Smiling, he hands back the mug. "Thank you for… the tasting experience. I hope it will ease all your inconveniences. – Now that I think of it, I can also offer you something with a similar effect, I hope."

She looks at him, confused, as he produces something from his pocket, and then her breath catches in her throat.

The silver pendant, shaped like a rose and attached to a fine chain, glistens in his hand as it did amongst the merchant's trash earlier that day when she saw it first.

"But… this… why did you buy it?"

"I was under the impression that you liked it… and that bandit scum we disposed of yesterday left us handsomely suppplied with coin." He grins. "I bought something for everyone – though Alistair didn't seem so appreciative of his new socks like the rest of us."

Morrigan barely notices the joke, transfixed with the silver sheen.

"You do like, it, don't you?"

"Yes, of course – it's utterly useless, I know, but –"

"I think I could come up with some use for it." And before she can react, he leans to her and clasps the chain around her neck. With a cold sensation, the pendant slides between her breasts, followed by Ned's look. "I think this is the right place for it," he remarks, and as she looks up, still perplexed by the unexpected situation and by his proximity, he leans even closer and quickly plants a kiss on her lips. "A little payback for the tea. Good night, Morrigan."

She does not respond – she never does, after all – but as he disappears in the dark, her lips slowly curve in a content smile.

Finally, the pieces of a puzzle fit in their place. Now she _knows_ where this is leading. She slowly traces the outline of her lips with her finger.

_Ned Cousland._

That night, she falls asleep more at ease than ever before.


	3. Travelling With Men

**Travelling With Men**

A warm, lazy day.

They have obtained their supplies in a nearby fishermen village and made camp by the lake, in quiet agreement that they are not going any further that day, taking an opportunity to rest before they decide on the next course of their journey.

Morrigan, like every reasonable being, lies curled in the shade, not wasting her energy on useless movement… unlike others.

In the shaded glade, Ned and Alistair are parrying; rather for the fun of it than for practice; the interplay of the swords is accompanied with banter and taunting.

Silly and senseless as the activity is, it at least provides entertainment. Even from her distanced position, Morrigan can take delight in the gracious movements of the well-formed bodies, free of the armour for once…

Morrigan can tell that she is not the only one enjoying the sight – the supposed Chantry Sister misses no opportunity to ogle Alistair's impressive frame.

The fool, of course, never notices.

Morrigan's lips curve. _And even if he did, he wouldn't know what to do about it._

Her smirk melts into a content smile. Well, _she_ knows what to do… and soon. She looks over at Ned, following the outline of his chest and shoulders highlighted by the sweated, clinging shirt. _Judging by the way he kisses, _he_ will know, too…_

The mock duel intensifies as the men get carried away by the battle excitement until they finally break apart, panting.

"Heck, I've grazed you," Ned frowns, seeing a red spot on Alistair's shoulder.

Alistair's eyes widen in shock. "You… that was my best shirt!"

Wynne's head jerks up from her book. "I'm _not_ mending this, Alistair! You should have taken practice swords when you did not bother with the armour!"

Exactly as Morrigan expected, Alistair makes his best puppy look. "But, Wynne…"

"I said 'no'!"

Morrigan is not so sure about the firmness of the decision: the old biddy, however impressive with her use of magic, has quickly developed quite a soft spot for the ex-Templar… _How very ridiculous_.

"It's your fault," Alistair pouts in Ned's direction, who makes a mistake bursting out laughing, and even a greater one being distracted. Alistair's assault brings him to the ground where they roll and struggle for a while until they separate and lie on their backs, panting even more and laughing.

_Truly, __nonsensical… but funny._

"Now I'm avenged," Alistair grins as Ned discovers a loose seam under his arm.

"And we both have to do the washing," Ned remarks somewhat sourly – unlike Alistair's, his shirt had been quite fresh before it obtained its due of grass stains.

"A bath would also do," Wynne remarks to no-one in particular.

"The water will be still cold." Alistair does not seem to be thrilled at the prospect but Ned laughs and pats his shoulder.

"'Won't kill you. Let's have a dip."

Unbidden, Wolf follows them, and so does Morrigan after a while.

Unseen and unheard, she glides down the slope, hiding in the thick underbrush of fern; then she crawls behind the shelter of the rock, for a view.

The men are stripping the last pieces, still in the teasing mood. Something Ned says causes Alistair to throw his boot at him; as Ned easily avoids the missile, Wolf leaps up and catches it in mid-air. The dog then scuttles off, pursued by Alistair wearing only socks, while Ned laughs so much that he can barely stand.

Morrigan also shakes with giggles: nude males should really see themselves when running; the source of their male pride bounces in a most ridiculous way.

Alistair returns, victoriously clutching his boot while Wolf keeps snapping at his heels. Alistair wags his finger at him, then unexpectedly rushes at Ned, grabbing him by the waist to toss him into the water.

Morrigan giggles again: Alistair's action is somewhat thwarted as Ned managed to pull him into the water along.

Silly and senseless as their behaviour is, it is still entertaining to watch.

The young men resurface, shaking off water like dogs, then indulge in an attempt to pull each other under water again.

Morrigan snorts. Had she not been there herself when Ned freed them all from the Sloth demon's trap – a truly remarkable feat for one untrained to deal with the lures of the Fade – she'd never believe that this is the same man.

_Probably an outlet for the stress_, she decides, though she has been under the impression that men prefer _other_ outlets – given the lack of opportunity, nonetheless, little wonder that Ned resorts to such… nonsense.

_Let's hope that this will change soon._

Neither the bath nor the washing takes very long. _Wynne will hardly be satisfied with the outcome_, Morrigan smirks. She is about to retreat when she notices that while Alistair is getting dressed, Ned remains seated on the shore, throwing pebbles into the water, as if intending to stay a little longer.

Her heartbeat quickens at the opportunity.

After Alistair's departure Ned returns to the water, probably for a swim – or rather, a more thorough and undisturbed bath, which is good since Morrigan prefers her men well cleaned.

As she is about to get up, she hears the movement of a large body in the undergrowth, soon followed by the familiar panting. Wolf approaches her with a soft bark, then he nuzzles against her hand. It's past her why the mabari seems to enjoy her company, since she is definitely not encouraging him, but he does nonetheless.

_Following his master's example, 'twould seem._

"Hush," Morrigan pats Wolf's head and he obeys, disappearing quietly in the fern again. Looking once more at Ned, who is swimming off the shore, she steps out of her hiding place and starts untying the laces of her tunic. When Ned turns back, she is already knee-deep in the water.

A few more steps and she plunges herself forward, swimming fast to overcome the initial shock of exposure to cold. She reaches Ned in no time, and smiles provocatively. "The water is still quite chilly. What about a little race as a warm-up? Let's say, over there?" she nods to the mass of rock slabs projecting into the lake, further off the camp. "You may even be rewarded if you win." And she immediately sets out, with a profound splash.

He overtakes her, as she intended, and still breathes rapidly as she arrives a moment after him. Morrigan pulls herself on the warm rock. "You have won, my dear Warden," she purrs. "You can claim a price of your choice."

Ned follows her out of the water even before she finishes the sentence, to claim his price there, on the warm stones.

Morrigan half-closes her eyes with pleasure as Ned's hands, still cool from the bath, move over her body, expertly dwelling on her breasts. She gasps at the contrast of his warm mouth, and archs her back to expose herself towards him. Her insides contract a little in excited anticipation: she _knew_ he would _know_.

She concentrates on her own pleasure for a while and then she pushes him away a little to take over the lead. She presses her lips to the base of his throat and trails lower, making him lie down. His chest rises in a ragged breath as she aims for his groin. The way Ned tosses his head back as she takes his shaft in her mouth, is most satisfactory; being the one who makes him gasp and groan at the slightest move of her tongue gives her a feeling of control which builds up her own excitement.

"Don't rush," he says in a muffled voice, pulling away from the contact; then almost screams as she gives one last vicious suck.

The retaliation follows immediately.

_It__'__s not only in fight that Ned Cousland pays back_, Morrigan thinks briefly before she stops thinking at all for a while, yielding to the almost violent passion, _'tis good to know_.

_And most enjoyable._

When they untangle and Morrigan puts her legs down from his shoulders, they remain lying for a while, to catch breath.

"What now?" Ned asks.

"Well, you can swim back or walk along the shore."

"I mean, between the two of us."

"That's quite simple – I intend to have my way with you as long as I enjoy it, and quit when I don't any more. The same applies for you."

"So, no pledges or obligations, only a couple of passionate moments as long as both sides agree?"

Morrigan frowns a little, since she cannot quite discern his expression. "Passion is all that matters in this, and it must be mutual, of course. Passion between equals," she emphasizes, to make clear that he should feel honoured by her offer, though she doubts that he would be able to appreciate that she has decided to overlook his faults.

Still that look the meaning of which she cannot grasp. "Given the lifestyle we lead, the lack of obligation seems... prudent." Slowly, Ned raises his hand and rests it on her thigh. "What if I say that this is never to happen again?"

"So be it – though I'm not under the impression that this is what you intend," she says, watching the hand as is starts stroking her hip with circular movements.

"I suppose I should take advantage of the situation – what if _you_ say next time that this is not to happen again?"

She chuckles. "I cannot rule out the option – though I do not intend to, for the time being." With a satisfied smile, she notices that he is aroused again. "I see the stories they tell of the Grey Wardens' endurance are not exaggerated," she remarks, opening her legs for him as Ned positions himself over her.

"Oh, there are stories?"

They move at a slow, lazy pace. Morrigan watches him as she says: "There are. Some claim that this is simply because the Wardens are naturally stronger and healthier than the average population while others ascribe it to the taint."

He loses the rhythm. "And you? What do you think?"

She sneers a little at his shock. "I like to think it's the combination of both – a natural talent driven by the darker side," she says sweetly. And since he still doesn't move, she pulls him down for a kiss. "Either way, I intend to make good use of both, my dear Warden."

Unsurprisingly, he complies – for all his qualities, he is still a man.

Travelling with men does have its entertaining sides.


	4. A Night at the Camp

**A Night at the Camp**

With her usual graceful step, Morrigan approaches the fire to collect her portion of the evening meal, ignoring the others but deliberately swaying her hips, knowing that it will not go unnoticed.

The way Alistair quickly averts his eyes whenever he might be caught staring, is most amusing. _The fool probably thinks that she never notices_.

And Sten… He never changes his expression, his eyes never linger – but she knows that she _will_ have a reaction, eventually.

The main object of her action also responds accordingly: as she passes by Ned between the tents, he he briefly snatches her in his arms for a kiss, as a promise of things to come.

"Oh, superb. Excuse me while I begin projectile vomiting."

Alistair's remark was probably never meant to be heard, but everyone has just fallen silent and Morrigan has a sharp ear.

"What was it, Alistair? We were not listening," she calls sweetly over her shoulder, breaking away from the kiss. With wicked delight, she notices that Ned's shoulders stiffen a little: _darling Alistair seems to be pushing too far._

Both for her own pleasure as well as for the show, she prolongs the kiss, feeling her pulse speed up. As she presses against Ned before they split, she feels yet _something_ else. "Come soon," she purrs and heads back to her tent, still swaying her hips since she knows that he is looking, he always does.

Later, when they are done, Morrigan rolls over to her belly on the blanket which they have spread by the fire and watches Ned getting dressed. She does not bother with her own clothes: the night is warm and she certainly has no scruples about exposing her body.

As she glances over to the camp, she notices that Alistair has stationed himself at the farther edge of the glade, and she does not hide a smirk: she was intentionally vocal, more than usually, knowing that he has the first watch. "My, my," she shakes her head. "'Twould seem that our dear friend Alistair does not approve of our little misadventure."

She cannot discern Ned's expression in the dark but he is definitely not amused. "You are both impossible," he says rather coldy but despite his words, he still bends to kiss her before he leaves.

Seeing his determined stride, Morrigan feels a tinge of curiosity. She hesitates but for an instant; then, on soft wolf paws, she runs around the glade.

Her assumption proves right: Ned does not head to his tent but towards Alistair, standing at the border of the firelight and the dark.

Morrigan is safely hidden behind a thicket before the conversation starts, hoping for yet another satisfaction tonight.

"Alistair. May I for a word?"

The way Alistair startles is definitely amusing: _now, unused to hearing such tones with our own person, aren't we_? But wolf throats are not accustomed to chuckling, and so she remains silent as Ned continues: "I'll say this just once. _I_ don't make smart comments about _your_ private life, or rather the lack of it, _you_ stop making comments about _mine_. Am I perfectly and abundantly clear?"

Morrigan tilts her head back, her maw wide open: _even better than she expected_. Little wonder that Alistair barely manages to stutter something incoherently apologetic, but Ned is not done with him yet. "Really, instead of prying your nose into other people's business, you'd better attend your own. Get yourself someone and have a nice roll in the grass, it will definitely provide you something to occupy your mind with."

Morrigan also feels like rolling, with laughter, especially as Ned adds: "Given the way Leliana ogles you at every opportunity, that 'someone' really shouldn't be hard to find." Even in the darkness, she can see Alistair's ears burn red like hot iron.

Ned then turns his back on the dumbfound ex-Templar but before he can leave, Alistair blurts after him rather desperately: "She'll _hurt_ you!"

Morrigan cannot help but perform the wolf equivalent of raising her brows. _Hurt_ Ned? Why should she do it? A capable warrior and leader – all right, he does have his flaws but they are quite minor – and a skilled and attentive lover who brings her valuable presents… _why_ should she wish to hurt him? There is absoutely no gain in this, and given the time they yet have to spend together, an action that would alienate him and possibly undermine his abilities would be highly impractical – for both of them.

With delight, she thinks of her latest acquisition: the bracelet of five pearl strings, clasped with a massive silver clasp, intricately wrought and inlaid with blue stones of impossibly deep hue – she has never seen their likes before. It perfectly fits to her wrist, neither constraining nor meddling with her movements as she casts spells.

A perfect gift, from – ah, well, not absolutely perfect but almost, yes – a perfect man. Why should she wish him harm? In fact, doesn't she do her best to keep him unharmed in fight?

And, above all, _how_ does the fool Alistair imagine that she might hurt Ned? Should she bewitch him with her charm to make him fawn over her like one of those love-struck fools Leliana sings about? Really, Alistiar doesn't seem to think very highly of the man who treats him with far greater respect than he deserves. Their fearsome leader is too complex to fall for such simple tricks.

Obviously, Ned also thinks that the notion is entirely ridiculous: he makes quite a performance, looking up, down and up again before he turns back to Alistair. Morrigan pricks up her ears in anticipation of another sarcastic reprimand but much to her disapointment, Ned speaks very softly, and the rustling of leaves in a gush of breeze prevents her from grasping his words. Annoyed, she lays her head on her front paws as she watches the two men part with a pat on the shoulder. _Alistair is hardly going to remember this lesson if he is graced immediately._

Lazily, she returns to her tent and shapeshifts back. She runs her fingers along the smooth cold pearls around her wrist. Such a little trinket, and what pleasure it can give.

_As well as Ned_. She smiles contentedly. There is nothing wrong with taking one's pleasure, as long as she remains in control.

Surely, there is nothing wrong with that.


	5. Soaring High

**Soaring High**

The dragon's carcass is slowly freezing, its wings spread in an unnatural position. No scavengers hover in the air; this is a place of rock and air, not living beings.

Morrigan slowly picks her way amid the boulders, her glance every now and then drawn to the lifeless red and black form. It had stood in their way and had to be destroyed, the outcome uncertain for quite some time; yet, she feels a tinge of sorrow for the magnificent creature of fire and free air. _To soar above the filth of the world, high above, unrestrained…_

One day, she may also acquire the ability, and the power.

Till that day, this is the closest she can get to it; here at the plateau just below the top of the peak.

_No wonder those crazy Andrasteans placed her ashes here._

She avoids looking at the shrine and draws her fur cloak closer: good quality fur, better than her previous, and almost unstained with blood as she took it from the body of the cultist whom she had frozen to death. No fur can protect from magic; but crazy as the cultists were, they had at least enough reason to wear decent clothes.

She crosses the streak of stones scorched black by the dragon's fire, as she heads towards the only other living being present.

Ned sits in a hollow, sheltered from the chilly wind, staring at something in his hand. He does not look up until she has approached him.

The sight is nothing like she expected.

_He is… crying?_

Even more irritated, she recognizes the item that he is holding: a simple-shaped pendant that appeared in his hand during the encounter with that blubbering apparition. Twisting her mouth, she voices her disgust: "Oh. I'm sorry. I never realized that you retired to privacy to snivel over a magic trinket."

Despite the tears, he gives her a look that would freeze stones. "If you have come to turn the blade in my wound, you may as well turn and leave at once."

Morrigan shifts uneasily. Irrational as his behaviour is, and certainly not befitting of a warrior and leader, she did not intend to increase his distress. She clears her throat. "You shouldn't… take that so seriously – the apparition, I mean. It was… supposed to be your father, I presume? "There was certain likeness to Ned, as she recalls. "You should keep in mind that it was just another trick, drawn out of your own mind to haunt you."

He raises the pendant. "It was his," he replies softly. "I have seen him wear it countless times."

Reluctantly, Morrigan accepts the fact, even though the whole affair still seems ridiculous, and suspicious. "Well, even if it is true, why are you so discomposed about it? I understand that it has been some time since your parents'… demise?"

His mouth twists and he turns away. "It has," he admits in a controlled voice. "Nonetheless, I haven't had a chance to stop and mourn them yet. I appreciate your concern but I'd prefer to be left alone."

Morrigan opens her mouth, then pauses, at a loss. _Is_ she concerned? With a mild surprise, she realizes that she probably is, somewhat… somehow. Ned _is_ worth her concern, after all: dragonslayers are not met on daily basis. "I, uh… I apologize for interfering." She makes an uncertain gesture with her hand, irritated once more, this time with herself. She sought him out impulsively, and the situation caught her unprepared. "I – I will leave you."But even as she says so, she realizes that she is loath to go. _Most awkward_. She feels compelled to say, _to do_, something – yet she has no clue what it should be, or why.

"It's alright," he replies, still staring at the opposite peaks, but then he looks up, disquieted. "Has anything happened? Did you need anything?"

"No – no. Everything is alright, as can be. I just – never mind, I'll go."

She makes only a few steps when his voice stops her: "Stay if you wish."

He has wiped his face and keeps looking over the valley, at the sharp outlines of grey rocks, brightened with sunlight, rising above the zone of low pines. The view is perfectly clear, undisturbed by any mortal toiling.

Hesitantly, Morrigan returns and sits on her heels next to him; her unease, though, soon overcome by the serenity. There is nothing but the impossibly bright sky, pierced by the distant peaks shining with ice. Ned's quiet presence blends with the background, his breath as natural as the blowing wind

"That… you father… did look quite like you," she remarks after a while.

Ned glances at her. "I have been told that I resemble him, though in stature I have taken after the mother."

This reminds Morrigan of yet something. "You said previously that both your parents died when an ally betrayed you, is that so? However, from what that 'Guardian' spirit said, I conclude that youre mother survived the attack – what happened, then? And why should you feel guilty about it? Was it by any error of yours that she died?"

"My father was mortally wounded. She decided to stay behind and could not be made to change her mind."

Frowning, Morrigan briefly ponders over his answer. "You mean that she wasted her life to stay with a dying man? Why should she do such a –" An idea dawns on her. "So she sacrificed her life because she _loved_ him? You do realize that this only proves that Flemeth was right again. Love _is_ a weakness, and a dangerous one, if it could compel a strong woman, as I believe your mother was, to self-destruction.

There is a ripple of muscles on his jaw and he takes a deep breath before he looks at her. "There is one more side to this. A part of her sacrifice was that she bought some time for _me_ to escape. I was injured; I may not have made it out in time. Would Flemeth do the same for you?"

"Of course not –" she blurts out. "Why – This is ridiculous!" The implication irks her. "I'd never expect or require that of her!"

"Well, I didn't _require_ that, either," Ned replies softly and calmly. "And I don't consider their love for me, or mine for them, a weakness."

Morrigan snorts. "So, and now you sit here and, uh, _mourn_ because you loved them? And you do not think it a weakness, despite what it does to you?"

"Even so. Some things are worth it." And seeing her barely concealed disbelief, he adds: "You shouldn't be condemning what you have never experienced yourself."

"Well, I must admit that it is an experience I certainly do not want," she quirks but even as she says so, she feels a pang of something – uncertainty? Regret?

"Unfortunately, it is not a matter of wanting," Ned mutters, his gaze again straying to the view.

Morrigan only sighs. At another time and place, she would be annoyed by his stubborness but the clear air makes her benevolent. She shifts closer to him and his arms embrace her waist. They both fall silent, watching the scenery.

_To fly over the ridges and valleys, in the blazing sun…_

"What's on your mind?" Ned asks softly as she sighs.

"I wish I could soar high in the air, with my wings spread to the wind," she answers, her gaze intent on the opposite peaks, the grey rock tinged with rich gold as the sun slowly descends to the west. Then, as she feels his embrace tighten, she giggles. "What's on _your_ mind?"

Ned laughs and brushes his lips against her nape. "Well, I didn't have _anything_ on mind but now that you mention it… Shall we go in? It's getting a bit chilly out here."

"I don't mind," she smiles, still watching the sunlight on the rocks.

"The view is overwhelming, I perceive. You seem to be quite transfixed by it," Ned mutters as he puts aside her cloak and uclasps her belt. "I'd hate to disturb you…"

"You are welcome to try", Morrigan half-closes her eyes. She rises on her knees so that he can pull down her trousers. The sensation of cold makes her nipples harden and she gasps as she feels Ned's hand slide between her thighs.

Her excitement builds up fast while the granite peaks turn pink with the receding light. The light, the colours, the rocks and the sky, the still fresh air, and Ned's hand, rubbing faster and faster at her nub… Morrigan breathes rapidly, absorbing it all, with every fibre of her being.

She moans in protest as his hand withdraws, then moans again, feeling his shaft pressing against her. She leans and supports herself against the rock, and then he fills her, pounding fast – their gasps, loud in the still air, the frantical heartbeat – she soars high on the wave of her climax, and so does her scream, followed by Ned's.

Turning to kiss him until their breathing finally slows, seems only natural.

In the falling darkness, Ned briefly leans his forehead against hers. "Thank you," he mutters.

She looks at him, puzzled. "What for?"

Instead of answering, he kisses her again. "Let's get back before it gets dark."

As they make their way across the plateau, tightly wrapped in their cloaks against the rising wind, they stop to look at the carcass, impressive even in death.

"The hide will make for a superior armour," Ned remarks. "That smith in Denerim…"

"No!" Morrigan protests vehemently. At his surprised look, she insists: "You already have the drakeskin for a new armour. Leave her here, as she is."

Ned glances at the highdragon once more, then he shrugs. "As you wish."

Together, they head to the entrance of the lower Temple, still magnificent in its emptiness.

Neither of them looks at the shrine of Andraste's ashes, forsaken again in the growing dark.


	6. Insomnia I

**Insomnia**** I**

She cannot sleep.

Morrigan squirms a thousandth time, to find a more comfortable position against Ned's body, relaxed with sleep.

_Why did he want this?_

It was quite obvious that she should lay with him – after what they've been through, relief was more than welcome.

She even took over the initiative, not to strain Ned too much – though not as badly injured as Sten or Alistair, he is still bruised and aching from fighting through the maze of the darkspawn tunnels and Caridin's traps. _And the golems…_ The memory of the animate stone, roaring in senseless rage, crushing all that stands in the way, sends chils down Morrigan's spine.

However, when Ned asked her to stay after they were done, her first impulse was to refuse: what use was sleeping in one bed? On a second thought, she reconsidered: partly out of a sense of debt, partly out of curiosity.

_The curiosity which she is coming to regret._

Though she must admit that it was even quite pleasant at first, lying next to him in his arms. _Quite… warm, that's it – not that it is particularly cold in the Deep Roads, the contrary, in fact, but anyway, the warmth of Ned's body _is_ pleasant, like lying in the sun…_

With mild surprise, Morrigan realizes that she might even like this. _There's nothing wrong enjoying the warmth, after all. It may well be the reason why he wanted her to stay. It would make sense._

If only she could sleep, though. Ned fell to the Fade almost immediately but she cannot – his breath, his heartbeat, the unaccustomed closeness, his arm around her – it's so unusual that she stays alert even despite the desperate need of rest after her injury.

She touches the side of her head where the skull had been cracked before Wynne healed it. _The damned midget_… Her last memory is that of Branka madly charging against her; the shock when the spell she cast in her defence totally failed; the instant of fear as she realized she wouldn't be able to avoid the blow, and then nothing. Nothing until she woke in the camp of the Legion, with a mother of headaches, which only slowly subsided.

She definitely needs rest.

Annoyed, she shifts again, staring into the darkness, permeated only with the dim light of the crystal lamp.

_Why __did he want it?_

The thought is persistent, as well as others.

And it is all, in fact, Ned's fault.

Morrigan bites her lip. She needn't have agreed… with the one thing as well as the other.

The idea that Wynne and Leliana should be left with the Legion until they recover, while the rest of them quickly set out to scout inside Bownammar, seemed most sensible at that time. After they had eliminated the mass of the darkspawn army on the bridge, the area was supposed to be nearly empty, and there was no telling how long it would remain so. She herself urged that they should take advantage of the time.

She couldn't have anticipated what they would encounter.

_Whom_ they would encounter.

Morrigan rolls her head from side to side as Hespith's broken voice chants her mad rhyme again, and breathes hard to suppress the nausea which grips her now as it did then, as she was slowly grasping what it was that Hespith was singing about.

Strangely, it is the voice and not the tainted face that scared her like nothing else – well, like only a few things – in her life.

One of those things appeared shortly afterwards.

_Laryn was the name_, Morrigan remembers, and the knot in her stomach tightens at the memory of the swollen creature, the distorted face, the wildly beating tentacles. _The Broodmother…_

She shivers. The walls of the Legion's encampment have been cleansed of the taint with fire, yet she can still feel the soft, slicky and warm touch of the materia covering the walls of the Broodmother's cavern. She has washed, as thoroughly as she could, given the scarce water supply of the uncorrupted stream – and is more than glad that Ned has done the same – but she still feels as if something of that … _fleshiness_… has clung to her skin.

Breathing raggedly, she feels her palm grow cold and wet. _He wouldn't have abandoned her to such a fate, he wouldn't…_

_He carried her out of those filthy tunnels, didn't he?__ In his arms._

He didn't mean what he had said, of that she is sure. He only meant to scare her, infuriated as he was with her, though she cannot understand why. _'Maybe you would like to be encased in stone and poured over with molten lyrium yourself? Or do you seriously expect that I should side with one who feeds her kin to the darkspawn and provides womenfolk for violation?'_

The implication is sickening.

_He definitely overreacted_, Morrigan thinks sourly. He almost _hurt_ her, first as he grabbed her jaw so brutally, then as he shoved her that she almost fell. _She_ should be the one infuriated.

Except that she cannot find it in her. The relief in his face when she finally came to, somehow erased her grudge.

_And he carried her out in his arms._

Morrigan is not sure why the fact seems so significant: after all, as the only one without a serious injury, Ned simply _had_ to carry her.

– _Oh, yes, there was also _Oghren_. _Morrigan twists her lips. She should be most grateful that no-one came up with _that_ idea. The dwarf definitely does not lack the strength but his stature makes the task of carrying one as tall as herself fairly impossible – though she has no doubts that he would _gladly_ have dragged her behind him, mopping the tainted floor with her hair.

She suppresses the urge to touch her hair, to make sure that no filth stuck to it.

With a sigh, she turns her head to examine Ned's profile as he lies on his back, lost in oblivion. The bruise on his cheek is still nasty purple, and so she reaches her hand and releases what little magic she has accumulated, in a healing spell.

He wouldn't abandon any of his companions, not even that drooling mongrel, she knows at least so much about him. He wouldn't have abandoned her as long as he could have done anything about it, and if there was no other choice, he would rather have killed her than let her be taken alive by the darkspawn.

And she would do the same for him, after all – do everything possible to get him out, and if the rescue was past her abilities, she would –

The idea makes her cringe and she suddenly feels as if on the verge of falling. She turns away. She would do for him the necessary, yet the mere thought of his death from her hands is unnerving.

_This is __foolish_, she scolds herself. _Pointless musing. They did make it out, after all, and no extreme measures had to be taken._

_'Offered to slit yer throat for 'im, if he couldn't bear to do it himself.'_

_Certainly you would have, you drunk of a midget. Little wonder that even that crazy Branka was sensible enough to leave you. And Alistair…_

_'He insisted on carrying you out. The reason why is really past me.' _The ex-Templar was lying, bandaged and still pale with blood loss, yet telling her that with his characteristic grin.

_Being indebted to _him_ for saving her life…_ Irritated, she squirms with her back against Ned. Her breath hisses between her teeth at the memory of the barely hidden delight with which that repulsive Oghren informed her that it was _Alistair_ who saved her from being hacked in halves after she was smitten down.

Not to mention the fact that the fool nearly got himself killed, as well, and so her debt to him is doubled.

Though she cannot really blame him for not expecting Branka to quadrupple and picking a wrong target among the illusions.

_Illusions. How the __lunatic did it when dwarves cannot use magic, is totally past her. A true pity that she wasn't in the state to perform a little research afterwards._

_Mo__st annoying, among other things, but there is no point pondering the past when there is the present to deal with. There is no escape from facts._

_Alistair is an impresive warrior_, Morrigan admits grudgingly, _and she can certainly trust him in fight. Nonetheless, outside the fight…_

Morrigan looks again at the sleeping man next to her. _What is it that you see in that fool? _she wonders, certainly not the first and only time.

She scowls, as an uncomfortable idea what it is that Ned sees in _her_, crosses her mind. She instantly scoffs herself: _they fit each other, in fight as well as in bed; there's nothing to wonder at…_

… _excep__t for, why he asked her to stay in his bed tonight. – Alright, bedroll._

Again she shifts, yawning profoundly. This sleeplessness is most annoying by itself, not to mention the weird thoughts it brings up.

In response to her movement, Ned finally also moves in his sleep, rolling to his side and pulling her closer, putting the other arm over her.

As his warmth envelops her, Morrigan feels some of her annoyance evaporate. She might even like this … if she ever manages to fall asleep, that is. She certainly does not wish to pay her debts with too high a cost to herself.

Repaying Alistair should not be very difficult – her magic has already proved helpful more than once in battle, though she never really placed herself between him and harm, and does not intend to. Whereas with Ned…

Strangely, it occurs to her all of a sudden that for all the gifts he has given her, she never gave him anything in return. It always seemed only natural that _he_ should be the one giving, and she is somewhat surprised not to see it this way any longer.

Maybe it has something to do with the golden mirror he gave her on the night before they set out for the Deep Roads: she took it with her, carefully wrapped in cloth. And though he insisted that he wanted nothing from her for that, she has already given thought to finding some reciprocation. Originally, she intended to wait until their return to Orzammar, but maybe she should reconsider: who knows what they may encounter on their way back.

She smiles contentedly into the dark. Yes, it seems that now would be the right time… when he wakes, that is. He will certainly appreciate her gift, it might prove very useful – for both of them.

Morrigan slightly shifts her head, to lie more comfortably. _It is truly surprising how well their bodies fit into each other as they lie together. Really, she is even coming to like this, in the end. The warmth is… soothing. _

_And pleasant. Reassuring._

_She might even… later…_

_She… might… even…_


	7. Spring Is in the Air

**Spring Is I****n The Air**

After the stale dusk of Orzammar, the air is bright and crisp and fresh, and once they descend from the mountains, it smells of spring.

They pass through patches of snowdrops, thriving in the leafless woods, wade through lilac crocuses, daze at the bright gold of winter aconite.

Spring is in the air, with the smell of the damp soil and decaying leaves.

The smell makes her feel as if tipsy, and full of energy, brimming from within.

Morrigan feels her lips curve in smile as she watches Ned, walking ahead; in the warm sun, he has taken off the fur cloak and his hair, slightly overgrown, is ruffled in gentle breeze.

She likes it this way, so that she can rake her fingers through the curls at his nape.

"What do you intend to do, woman?"

Morrigan blinks: being addressed by Sten comes rather unexpected, as the two of them barely exchange a single word within weeks.

Unless she chooses to tease him, which she hasn't done in a while.

And so she replies in her sweetest tone, to outweigh his, which is cold even for Sten: "What do you mean, my dear Sten?"

"With the Warden."

This is most amusing, and Morrigan chuckles. "Ah. Did you desire a demonstration?"

"Your demonstrations are hard to overhear every evening. Do you really think you can control him like that? Has your magic failed you?"

The spring has come, the sunshine is blinding after the dark of winter, and Morrigan tosses her head. "Would you like to try my magic, Sten? I dream about you and I, if you must know."

"You belong to the Warden."

"I belong to no-one!" Her exclamation provokes no response, and so she purrs: "And I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"But you would, were I interested. The qunari act is… unpleasant."

Sten walks faster but Morrigan keeps up without effort. "Unpleasant? Unpleasant how? Now I'm really interested. I like it… animated."

"You'd be less animated afterward." He keeps staring ahead, as if hoping that by not looking at her she might become nonexistent.

_Definitely amusing_. "Twould seem that you are already harbouring some secret thoughts about me."

She laughs, as Sten grunts: "Parshaara! Why do you pester me?" and he breaks from her.

_Because you started._ "Because 'tis amusing, that's why!" she calls after him and keeps laughing, until she meets Ned's gaze, dark and unfathomable. She feels a pang of unease but then tosses her head again: the spring is in the air, and she won't have her fun spoiled.

_I belong to no-one._

As they set camp for the night, she watches Sten bring wood for the fire: for one so big, he moves with grace. When he has sat down to tend to his sword, she rises and approaches the Qunari. She feels Ned's eyes on her but does not heed: waiting for the dinner is boring.

_And I belong to no-one._

"You seem so deep in thought, my dear Sten. Thinking of me, perhaps? The two of us, together at last?"

"Yes."

The answer catches her by surprise, and before she can think what to say next, Sten continues: "You will need armour, I think. And a helmet. And something to bite down on. How strong are human teeth?"

"How strong are my teeth?" she repeats with disbelief.

"Qunari teeth can bite through leather, wood, even metal, given time. Which reminds me, I may try to nuzzle."

"Nuzzle?" Morrigan feels the conversation rushing ahead without her control.

"If that happens, you'll need an iron pry bar. Heat it in a fire, first, or it may not get my attention."

"Perhaps it would be better if we did not proceed," Morrigan says rather stiffly, in an attempt to save her dignity. She already feels her cheeks burning.

The Qunari raises his brows. "Are you certain? If it will satisfy your curiosity... "

"Yes. Yes, I think it is best."

As she turns, putting great effort in looking nonchalant, she hears laughter.

Ned laughs wholeheartedly, his eyes shining with amusement.

"Don't you dare!" she hisses and rushes away, to hide her embarrassment.

Ned catches up with her only at the bank of the creek, and when she refuses to stop, he grabs her by the waist and pushes her to the trunk of a massive beech. "So, have you had your way with Sten?" he teases her with a glint of mischief in his eyes, as he presses against her, pinning her to the trunk.

"Don't you dare to laugh at me!" she growls but it only provokes him to laugh again.

"Has no-one ever told you not to play with fire, lest you might get burnt?"

When she angrily pushes against him with her hands, he gets hold of her wrists and presses them to the trunk above her head. "Don't be so bristled, you've asked for it."

"Stop laughing at me!"

His amused expression melts into another and Ned narrows his eyes, pressing even closer to her. "Or?"

Despite her irritation, she feels warmth spreading from her core, provoked by the contact of their bodies.

"Or you will pay for it. I will make you beg for mercy," she says sweetly, baring her teeth.

"You will?" Ned's thigh presses between her legs. "What makes you think that _I_ won't make _you_ beg for mercy? You'd definitely deserve it."

"Don't presume that you owe me because I've decided to be with you! I do what _I_ wish to do!"

"And sometimes you get even more than you wished."

Morrigan curses and struggles to free herself, much to Ned's amusement.

"'Like it animated', uhm?" he chuckles as he kisses the spot under her jaw and then grazes it with his teeth.

She wriggles again but the only effect is that Ned is now firmly nested between her thighs. Standing in such a position is uncomfortable, and so she wraps her legs around his hips. "You're impossible," she snorts.

He lets go her wrists and his hands move to her breasts. "You were saying?"

"Never mind," she gasps.

An unwelcome interruption appears in the form of Leliana, coming to fetch water. Seeing them, she scowls. "Oh, go ahead, the two of you, won't be disturbed. But don't be surprised if there is no dinner left."

Morrigan chuckles. "It seems we have approval," she says loud enough for the departing bard to hear.

"Yeah, but the begging part will have to wait," Ned mutters. "With Alistair around, there is no dinner safe."

Here comes her vengeance. She tightens her hold of him. "I'm not letting you."

Ned groans. "Come on, don't be cruel, I can't do without my dinner. The Grey Warden appetite…"

"You will have to, my dear Warden. Unless…"

"Oh, Morrigan. Can I have my dinner, please? Please? I do beg of you…"

They both laugh, leaning helplessly against the tree.

"You may," Morrigan gasps, breathless and feeling again as if tipsy.

The air smells of spring, even though the night is going to be cold.

The spring has come, and her lover has promised to kill her mother for her.


	8. In Uthenera

**In Uthenera**

Leliana is singing… again. Unsurprisingly. When not in fight or under pursuit, there is hardly an evening when the bard does not at least strum her lute. More often than not, she sings.

More often than not, she produces at least _one_ nonsensical song about _love_, which leaves her misty-eyed and exchanging doe eyes with Alistair.

No-one except Morrigan seems to mind.

The singing Leliana has a pleasant voice, and the melodies are pretty; it's the topic that Morrigan finds most annoying.

Especially of late.

And today is no different. The edge of the Brecillian Forest – the curse, the deaths, the suffering – have provided the oh-so-romantic setting the Orlesian bard ravels in so much.

Morrigan sighs. Really, instead of cheering them up with some jolly topics and melodies – preferably such as make Alistair blush all over – the bard is keen on boring them to death.

Though, death itself might still be better than pondering over accepting death. Death is the end of struggle, the ultimate failure; death is what happens to those less powerful while victors move on.

Morrigan shakes her head: Leliana is simply hopeless – a perfect match for one like Alistair.

Yet, it may be due to the Elvish words that the song sounds… different; and Leliana's voice, crystal clear, cuts deep, sending waves of heat and chill down Morrigan's spine.

_. hahren na melana sahlin_

_. emma ir abelas_

_. souver'inan isala hamin…_

Morrigan shakes her head again, to push aside the feelings that respond to the song. Watching the red-haired bard stand before Ned, singing to _him_, she finds herself choking with an unfamiliar emotion, welling from within.

'_Is this… love? That way I feel…drawn to you? Wanting such… closeness? For if it is, I want to be sure that you do not feel the same!'_

'_And if I do?'_

She sees Ned, intent on listening to that silly song, and Leliana's voice, rising into heights, makes her tremble.

''_Tis a weakness! You – you must end this, and I'll – I'll be grateful.'_

'_I don't want this to end, Morrigan.'_

'_You selfish bastard!'_

_You selfish bastard, you… I _hate_ you for making me feel like this._

_Does the stupid song never end?_

_. vhenan him dor'felas_

_. in uthenera na revas_

Sitting on her heels, Morrigan clenches and opens her hands, trying for deep, controlled breathing.

'_Tis__ only a song_, she reminds herself, _only a song…_

…_. __he's only a man…_

… _Ned…_

_I cannot let this continue. I cannot._

_I cannot succumb to that feeling, 'tis – _

'_Weakness. Pursued by those who are weak by their nature, and further weakened by dwelling on useless emotions.'_

The memory of her mother's voice, brimming with contempt, makes her involuntarily cringe even now.

_You're dead. You're dead__ for now, you old crone. You have no power over me._

_And I am not weak. I am not. I will overcome this. It will pass… it must._

_. vir sulahn'nehn_

_. vir dirthera_

_. vir samahl la numin_

_. vir lath sa'vunin_

'_We love one more day…__'_

_Why is it that everything seems to come down to this __'love'?_

_Damned song._

_Damned fee__ling._

_How did it happen to her? When, where?__ Why did she never realize it was happening?_

It should have occurred to her long ago that something was amiss. When she started seeking his company for no particular purpose. When she adopted the habit of falling asleep next to him.

Morrigan slams her shaking fist into the ground. Even there in Redcliffe, when she realized that she wasn't interested in seducing that handsome Bann Teagan, she still suspected nothing.

_And how _rational_ she was about it. __'__One does not swap a pair of fitting worn shoes for new ones, after all.__'_ And the soft bed with silken sheet seemed pleasant enough even without a male to warm it.

And it wouldn't have been fair to Ned who was out there, in the Korcari Wilds, fighting the ancient dragon that Flemeth was.

_Fair to him, if _she_ was the one to set the rules? How did it not strike her that she was acting strangely?_

Yet, she started to suspect only when Ned returned, the scars of the dragon fire still visible, and gave her Flemeth's grimoire, and she realized that having the man back actually pleased her more than having the book. She quickly dismissed the thought as a result of the lonesome nights at first, but it kept recurring during their way to the Brecillian Forest, until she ventured to talk about it in the old Tevinter ruins.

'_Is this love?'_

_The feeling which makes her ache within, like in those stupid songs of Leliana's? __That drives her to think of _him_, to seek _his_ look, _his_ touch?_

_The feeling that everyone so adores?_

_The feeling that undermines her strength and resolution, leaving her unable to deal with it, to end this humiliating dependence?_

_And _he_ would have it continue!_

Morrigan is sure that she would master her mind again, if only he let her… If only he left her alone.

_Which is not about to happen_, she realizes with a pang of despair.

Soon enough, with the tones of Leliana's song still hovering in the memory, Ned appears at her fire. She has not heard him come – _yet another proof of what he does to her; when have her senses become so dull?_ – and she abruptly raises her head, startled. She does not know what it is that he sees in her uncontrolled face but he immediately kneels to her, cupping her face with a swift move, kissing her –

– _and it feels so incredibly good, being kissed so gently, his hands slowly trailing down her throat and shoulders –_

– and she almost chokes as she realizes how much she craves to be touched, by _him_, and to touch in return –

Morrigan pushes with her hands against his shoulders. "No… leave me. I don't feel like…" her voice is tiny and squeaky, not like her voice at all, which angers her. "Leave me be!"

For a moment, Ned looks dumbstruck but he still holds her. "What's wrong?" he asks softly, raising his hand to her cheek.

Morrigan jerks away from the touch, before he can entangle her again. "Must something be wrong with me because I do not appreciate your charm? You must forgive me if I refuse to dance like a tame mabari!"

His hand freezes in mid-air. "I certainly don't expect anything like that – never _wanted_ anything like that." He takes a deep breath. "Morrigan. What is it that _you_ want?"

"I – " her voice breaks.

_What do I want?_

– _to touch you, to kiss you – _"Leave me be," she gasps. "Just leave me be." _And don't look at me like this, I can't…_

_I can't let this continue._

Ned hesitates, and she is not sure which outcome to expect, or hope for. "As you wish," he says at the long last. Before she can avoid the touch again, he brushes his lips against hers. "I'm still here," he whispers, and then he lets go and disappears into the night.

The absence of his touch is almost like physical pain. Morrigan embraces herself and helplessly feels her eyes well with water: all her strength spent on the effort not to call him back.

Even as she chokes with silent sobs, her lips move of their own accord: _Ned_.

_Oh, how she hates him for making her feel like this, and she hates herself, and hates her helplessness above all__, as she keeps sobbing, hunched pitiably on her knees._

_This cannot be allowed to continue._

_And the thought _hurts_._

A sudden touch startles her again, as well as a flash of hope that _he_ has returned; however, the panting and the smelly breath reveal the nature of the intruder well before she raises her head.

Wolf gently pokes at her with his wet nose, whining sympathetically. He keeps whining until she reaches her arms and embraces his thick neck – _an insufficient replacement_. The thought makes her giggle hysterically, until she breaks into sobs again, realizing how _needy_ she has become.

Finally, her sobs subside and Morrigan shakily straightens. She sniffs and wipes her face, frowning at her wet hand. Then she eyes Wolf with suspicion. "Did _he_ send you?"

The dog sits on his hinds and barks expectantly, with an air of excited satisfaction about him.

The meaning of the bark is more than obvious.

Morrigan laughs, still with a shade of hysteria, and rises to produce the desired object from her pouch.

The cookie disappears in the mabari's maw with one swift munch and she rewards him with another.

"Don't tell anyone," Morrigan mutters, "either thing."

Wolf issues an assuring bark before he scuttles off.

Morrigan sits down and leans against the tree: she feels exhausted, utterly spent. She hasn't cried ever since she was very little, and she has forgotten the vulnerability it produces. She didn't even know she could still cry.

Puzzled, she frowns as she recalls that she did cry, once.

_For the mirror._

_For something precious that was shattered to pieces._

_How could she forget that?_

Deep within, she feels the urge to cry resurrected, but it seems that for the time being, she has spent her ration of tears. Or maybe she is simply too exhausted even for that.

With cold reason, she knows what she should do, at once.

Morrigan reaches for her pack and produces the mirror out of its wrapping. She traces the wrought frame, runs her fingers over the cold surface.

_She should shatter it, break it into pieces. Sever that tie that restrains her so._

She stares long at her reflection.

Then she carefully wraps the mirror again and hides it at the very bottom of the pouch.

_This cannot be allowed to continue._


	9. Insomnia II

_Despite all that vehement "It cannot be allowed to continue", you can see clearly here that continue it does, and not just for once. What happened in between to change Morrigan's attitude is **Necessary Things** - if you don't want to read through 25 chapters, chapter 20 tells it all - more or less :-)_

* * *

The darkness is bleak and oppressive: a cloudy moonless night.

Yet, the sky is not reddened with the vapours of the Blight – for now.

Morrigan lets her breath out and instinctively presses closer to Ned's warmth, seeking solace and reassurance.

'_Twas just a dream._

Realizing what she has done, she issues a little sigh of resignation.

_Never before has she been compelled to do such things. __'Love', not a weaknes? Pah!. A dangerous and subtle one, crawling in unnoticed, until it is too late. _

_Nonetheless, it is no use denying the truth: she has succumbed to it. To that weakness. She who has always taken pride in being strong._

She sighs again. _It's like an illness – like a common cold which cannot be cured no matter what, not even with magic. It's no use fretting over it, it's the way things are._

_And what can't be cured, must be endured._

_All diseases eventually pass, and so will this love. It's no use fighting it, it's a matter of time. She will become free of it, with time._

And the time is running out.

Tomorrow, they are leaving for Redcliffe. The horde is concentrating in the south.

The Archdemon was sighted.

– _his unseeing eyes stare into the sky, reddened with the vapours of the Blight, while his sword protrudes from the dragon's skull –_

Morrigan clenches her fists, her breath hissing between her teeth. _I won't let it happen. Not if I can do something about it. There is a way…_

_After all, isn't this why she is here, in the first place? Being able to save Ned is a boon, not the goal._

Though, at times she is no longer sure which is which.

Slowly, she places her hand at her abdomen. _So soon…_

_She had not expected it to end so soon._

_A few weeks, no more._

_After that, she will be free again. Free and strong again…_

… _and alone._

Irritated, she claws with her nails against the linen. _Isn't it what she wants, after all? To be relieved of her weakness, to grow in her power, with no Flemeth interfering?_

_It seems to be a part of the illness that one does not wish to be relieved of it. _He_ definitely does not._

_Meaning, love can come to some good use__, after all. Ned will be less likely to refuse her offer, or not?_

_If he refuses – _

– _his empty eyes, staring –_

_No. She will take use of that little remaining time, to tie him closer to her._

_He must accept. He must accept. He must…_

…_live._

As if in response to her own distress, Ned shifts and moans in his sleep. Morrigan remains completely still so as not to wake him but as he issues a small sobbing sound and starts tossing his head on the pillow, she realizes the reason.

Not being a mage, he cannot walk the Fade in consciousness; cannot interrupt his nightmares at will.

This is no darkspawn dream; she has seen her share of these, during their nights together. With darkspawn dreams, the taint in his veins sings and revolts, answering to the Archdemon's call.

No, this is but a human nightmare – one that has been constantly pestering him these days.

Ever since Fort Drakon.

And as he cannot end it himself, she has to do it for him.

As Ned's moaning intensifies, Morrigan rises on her elbow and shakes his shoulder. "Tis but a dream," she says. "Wake up, Ned, 'tis only a dream."

He struggles with the lures of his mind a little longer, then wakes with a fright. As he becomes fully aware of his whereabouts, he exhales a ragged breath. "Thank you," he mutters and wipes his face with his hand. "Have I woken you?"

"No," she replies, lying down.

Ned pulls her to him and buries his face in her hair.

Once again, Morrigan is sorry that Loghain MacTir died such a quick and clean death. She would have poured a slow poison in his veins and watched him writhe for hours.

For_ days_.

Never before has she experienced that degree of excruciating pain, tearing down the defences of the mind, leaving only the very core still resisting, with the last strength.

Never has she thought she would experience that through her link to another.

Never has she imagined her own reaction to that.

They hold onto each other, their solace against the night. After a while, Ned's hands start moving over her body, groping their way in the dark. Morrigan fakes a response, as he is proceeding too fast. She knows that it is not desire but despair that drives him to her now – a desperate urge to erase that which haunts him in his dreams; the only time when he is not in control.

She does not mind being used in this way: it's the least she can do for him.

It is only difficult to let her body relax to his touch so soon after her own portion of dark thoughts.

"Morrigan?" Even with his breath already rapid, the man can still sense something wrong.

Or maybe not so much sense as feel; she is well aware how stiff she is, with the knot in her stomach growing tighter, her eyes burning –

"What is it?"

She can feel Ned's breath on her cheek as he leans closer, his hand caressing her face, her hair.

Morrigan takes a deep breath and swallows hard, struggling for self-control – struggling to hold back what she cannot possibly tell him yet. And so she offers at least a part of the truth. "I… was thinking, how this will end soon. This life we have lived – nothing will be the same any more."

Ned is quiet for a while. "I do not dare to think of any future past the Archdemon," he says at last. "After that, everything is just blank. Even you and me – I'm sorry." He sighs. "Back then, as I was trying to talk to you about future – I allowed myself to dream a little, to think of ways to be together. I don't anymore – I can't." He traces the outline of her face with his fingers. "Maybe I'm simply a coward – afraid to die knowing what it is that I am losing."

"You're no coward," she protests, pulling him to her. As she does so, she feels the meshing scars under her palms – not as swollen and puckered as they would have been without the magic healing, but still recognisable.

In her discomposed state, the memory of him, bloodied and bruised and beaten as he lay on the cell floor like a broken thing, brings another wave of stinging sensation under her lids.

She didn't think at that moment that he would ever be able to rise again.

"You're no coward," she repeats, and the anger at the shakiness of her voice helps her regain composure. "'Tis only prudent that you concentrate on the task ahead and don't let yourself be distracted by what may or may not come."

After a moment, he chuckles. "Well, I certainly do not seem to lose my sleep over the future."

"I'm not – " she tries to sit up abruptly, truly vexed. "This is – "

" – ridiculous," Ned laughs as he pulls her down again and turns her on her belly.

"What are you doing? You are – "

" – impossible," he finishes as he starts rubbing her nape and shoulders, relieving the tension.

"'Twould seem that you have finally learned to asses your qualities," Morrigan mutters as she yields to the massage and finally relaxes.

In response, Ned only continues massaging her back with long, even strokes.

"Most irritating man," she murmurs into the pillow.

"I love you, too," he breathes in her ear.

She does not bother to snort and instead, takes pleasure in the touch.

_What can't be cured, must be endured – and in this case, even enjoyed._

Especially if the massage is only a start, and their time is running out.


	10. Raven's Flight

**Raven's Flight**

"_We must expect that the Archdemon will call its mightiest minions to its __aid."_

"_It will? Then we must make sure that there is no-one left to answer the call."_

And so they lead their small troup of Redcliffe soldiers through the ruined streets of Denerim, under a reddened sky; cut and burn their way through the hosts of the corrupted beasts. Morrigan has lost count of time: her world has shrunk into the pulsing energy of her casting; the slashing swords and singing arrows.

And into a single thought, hovering somewhere at the edge of her mind, where she has pushed it: _this is the end. Coming closer with every step. By every step, their time together is coming to an end._

And, as if in response, though she is sure that Ned cannot read her mind through their link, there comes but one thought that persists in _his_ mind, even as he is focused on the fight: _I won't let her go_.

_I won't let her go_, he avoids a blow that would have crushed him, and beheads the ogre before it can straighten again, _I won't let her go_.

_As if I was giving you a choice_. The lesser darkspawn are sent flying by the blast of her fireball, and she does not even pause her steps as she imbibes yet another dose of lyrium_. I know you wouldn't, and I won't be taking any chances. _

_Chances that you would talk me into staying. My love._

For some reason, thinking about him in this way comes much easier than before. The proximity of the end does not allow for pretense.

Their progress is slowed twice as they encounter the hurlock generals, and then they storm along the broad paved road towards Fort Drakon, hitting the darkspawn concentrated there with the force of a hammer.

The Archdemon may have lost its mightiest minions, but it still has those less powerful aplenty. They have been gathering from all of Denerim, to protect their Lord as it has retreated to the shelter of Fort Drakon's tower, inaccessible but for those able to fight their way through the fortress overridden by darkspawn.

Morrigan bares her teeth as she glances to the top of the tower. _Afraid, are you? If a single man could hurt you so, what might happen if some more reached you?_

_Pity that Riordan was only partly successful._

"Hold back!" she hears Ned command; the soldiers, already familiar with what is to follow, obey immediately. She waits until Wynne strikes into the earth with her staff, the impulse spreading and knocking the darkspawn off their feet, and then she releases her own spell.

When the fiery blaze finally subsides, the way into Fort Drakon is cleared.

They meet only scarce resistance in its corridors, and then there are the winding stairs.

Up, up they go; the stairs seem endless. Through the blood throbbing in their ears, unmuffled by their loud breath, there comes the roar. Closer and closer. Loud thuds, clinking of metal, screams.

Ned pauses and bids them to stop: _catch breath_.

Then, as they are about to reach the half-open door, he stops again, briefly looking at each of them. _My love_, Morrigan returns the look. There is no need for words.

And then they dash out, into the roar.

The twin platform of Fort Drakon is strewn with bodies: it seems that as the fortress was taken, the remnants of the garrison retreated here, only to find an enemy they never expected.

The Archdemon, its left wing sliced by Riordan's blade dragging along, rampages across the men and darkspawn alike. Its eyes glow; its teeth, unnaturally sharp, sink into the mail and flesh of a soldier who hoped to crawl into a dubious safety of a broken turret. The maw tosses the corpse in the air like a cat toying with its prey.

At Ned's sign they spread to circle the monster. Morrigan feels her heart throbbing: so close, the Archdemon is even more hideous that it seemed during the encounter in the Deep Roads. Its scales are uneven and twisted; the preposterous thorns protruding from the joints a mockery to the elegant smooth shapes of the High Dragons. The eyes are the worst: pearly white, yet glaring red with madness.

_Tainted. Corrupted._

For an instant, Morrigan wonders what it must have looked like _before_.

And then the beast is on them, teeth and claws, buffetting wing and slashing tail, and they fight back, dodge and cast and evade.

The blood dripping on the stone seems black in the red light.

It is Leliana who alerts them to new danger as a wave of darkspawn pours onto the platform through the left entrance.

Surrounded by enemies, their attack on the Archdemon falters. It is at this moment that Morrigan notices the monster's nostrils widen and with her mage senses, she sees the outlines of objects blur.

And then it exhales. Morrigan blinks: the world swirls in a dark veil, the surges of energy mercilessly drag along anything that stands in the way. A hapless soldier turns into a bloody mass within seconds; the streams tug at her clothes and hair, draining her force, the energy of the protective wards. She staggers, short of breath; her casting fails.

Almost passing out, she feels strong arms grab her by the waist and drag her away; when her eyes focus again, she sees a cloud of dark energy slowly evaporating over the central part of the tower.

"Parshaara!" Sten tosses her aside and charges the group of shrieks, appearing out of nowhere; Morrigan, with her arms still numb, gropes for the lyrium vials. Further on her right, she sees a flare of energy, meaning Wynne is still alive and casting, but the left platform is still obscured by the cloud, and the Archdemon balances on the ruins of the central turret there like a monstrous bat.

The metallic taste of lyrium is followed by a wave of light-headedness: she will have to avoid taking the substance for months, not to risk consequences. She raises her hands and sends a chain of lightning through the shrieks flanking Sten; their bug-like bodies twitch as they fall to the ground.

Morrigan produces a new bolt; holding it between her hands, she concentrates the force before she hurls it upwards. "Down with you," she hisses as the bluish energy hits the monstrous dragon. _Down with you, where they can reach you_. For though she cannot see him, she knows that Ned is still there somewhere, alive and fighting.

Then she grabs the staff which she has dropped. "Get out!" she yells and sprints to the ramp leading to the ballistas, splits of a second before the place where she had stood is hit by another cloud of energy. She laughs wildly, pushing back her loosened hair, and looks back at the turret.

The Archdemon is not there.

A gust of wind: Morrigan instinctively somersaults and rolls away. Not wasting her time getting up, she casts a cone of cold air, gaining precious seconds to increase the distance between her and the talons, needle sharp and each longer than her forearm.

Another wave of cold, from the opposite direction. Caught between the two mages, the Archdemon pauses in its attack, only to roar in fury as Sten's blade slashes deep at its hind leg.

The world blurs again but what the Archdemon issues is not a cloud of energy but another roar. The shaft of the ballista missile disappears with one snap of the maw and the monstrous head jerks in the direction of…

"Run, Leliana!" Wynne yells at the top of her lungs as the dark cloud envelops the opposite ramp, obscuring the bard's fate.

Morrigan wastes neither time nor energy and does her best to make use of the damage Leliana has inflicted with her timely shot. _Both wings. Good_. The flames she summons cause the Archdemon to beat frantically with its injured wings, managing only an uncoordinated leap before landing again. The talons leave deep marks in the stone but Morrigan is no longer where she had been; running, she casts alternately ice and fire, at the beast.

A flash of silver armour, reddish in the unnatural light: Alistair and Ned have finally dealt with the oncoming tide of darkspawn. They charge together, splitting and attacking from flanks just before the gaping maw can strike.

Infuriated by the Wardens' attack, the Archdemon decides to deal with them one by one, aiming its attention at Ned: a fatal mistake. Alistair's blade, glowing with enchanted runes, drives deep into its belly. As the beast tosses its head back in pain, roaring deafeningly, there comes a concentrated charge.

The roar subdues to pained shrieks: the anxiety in the dragon's voice is almost human as it convulses helplessly under the slashing and chopping blades.

"Back off!" Morrigan hears Ned shout hoarsely. The top of the tower falls silent but for the laborious breaths of the men and the beast.

"Don't; let me!" Alistair pleads, grabbing Ned by the arm.

Ned only shakes his head; urged by his violent gesture, Alistair finally retreats.

With cautious steps, his sword ready, Ned approaches the Archdemon's head, which slowly rolls in agony on the broken stones.

_It will not work_. The idea strikes Morrigan like a lightning. _Don't!_ she wants to scream but her throat is so tightened that she cannot even breathe.

_I have condemned him to death._

Unable to move, to act, she can only watch as Ned grips the hilt in both hands.

_Morrigan…_

His thought reaches her as he drives the blade into the dragon's neck, right below the skull, with all his strength.

There is a clunk and sudden pressure in her ears; unable to close her eyes, she sees a blast of energy issuing from the wound, blindingly bright, tinged red as it passes through Ned's body. She sees him throw himself on the hilt, using his body's weight to drive the point even deeper, into the skull cavity, struggling against the contrary force pushing him away.

And then the power is released in an explosion, and the world disappears in a flash of white.

Even as she flies through the air and crashes hard on the stone, Morrigan feels the energy piercing her, entering her with the might which leaves her wet and twitching in both pleasure and agony alike.

_It is accomplished._

As her overwhelmed senses slowly return to the normal, Morrigan raises her head. No-one has remained standing but she is not the first to move. With a scream of raw pain, Alistair crawls to the unmoving heap which is Ned: still alive, as the ring tells her, but barely so.

The impulse to do the same, to go, to crawl to him as fast as her battered body can, is almost overwhelming.

Around her, others slowly start to move. Morrigan crouches and casts a healing spell over herself: she is sore but relatively unharmed, and the child in her womb is sound and safe.

"He is alive…" she hears Alistair stutter in disbelief. "Wynne, quickly, he is alive!"

Morrigan shakingly rises to her feet. Her vision is blurred again; with a sob, she makes a step back. Then another.

The hardest steps she's ever made.

With everyone's attention aimed at the Archdemonslayer, she remains unnoticed; unobserved, she retreats to the edge of the platform. Unwatched, she shapechanges; lingering only so long as to make sure that Wynne's healing magic works.

No-one sees the raven fly into the sky where the vapours of the Blight slowly recede.

_

* * *

_

So, it is accomplished. My thanks to everyone who has reviewed, subscribed or merely lurked.

_Your support means a lot to me._

_What next? __I won't be venturing any further with Morrigan on my own since I'm more than sure that we will see more of her in DA3. However, I'm going to have a little take on the Witch Hunt in a separate story, __**Hunting Dreams**__, mostly from Ned's PoV. I'd much like to finally finish **Necessary Things **but I still have a block and can't think of a sufficiently pointed ending. I also have a couple of bits and pieces on Ned – Alistair, but I'm not sure yet if to organize them into a single story or rather a series; there's definitely going to be a more detailed account of the Deep Roads, from Alistair's PoV. Lastly, I've become intrigued with Nathaniel Howe and – surprisingly, with the way I keep poking in how people feel and interact – his relationship to Ned Cousland. – Oh, not _that_ relationship, I think that fictions with Couslands eager to be ravished by Nathaniel are abundant enough even without my contribution ;-) __And since it happens to be this one where I have started writing from the beginning, __**His Father's Son **__is just about to be published. Hopefully, you will enjoy._


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